At first, I thought nothing of it when I noticed my wife drawing little tally marks on her hand. I shrugged it off as one of her quirky habits. But as those marks multiplied, and her answers stayed vague whenever I asked about them, I began to realize something far darker might be lurking beneath the surface of our seemingly happy marriage.

“Married life is great, right?” I’d tell my friends when they asked. And it was—at least, for the most part. Sarah and I had only been married for a few months, and I was still adjusting to the role of being a husband. Sarah was always so organized, so thoughtful; she had a way of making everything look effortless.

But after a while, something changed. I noticed a strange habit developing. One day, she casually pulled a pen out of her purse and drew a small tally mark on the back of her hand. At first, I didn’t think much of it.

“Did you just mark your hand?” I asked, a little amused.

She smiled and shrugged. “Just a reminder.”

“A reminder for what?” I laughed, thinking she was joking. But she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she quickly changed the subject.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed her doing it more and more. Some days, she’d have one or two tally marks. Other days, there’d be five or more. And then there were days when there were none. It seemed random, but it started to bother me. What on earth was she keeping track of?

The more I saw it, the more worried I became. It was as if she was keeping a secret from me, and whatever it was, it was slowly eating away at our happiness.

One night, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Sarah, what’s with the tally marks?” I asked as we were getting ready for bed. “You’re doing it all the time now.”

She looked at the marks on her hand, then glanced up at me with that same mysterious smile. “It helps me remember things, that’s all.”

“Remember what?” I pressed her.

“It’s just… things,” she said, brushing me off like it was no big deal. “Don’t worry about it.”

But I did worry. A lot. I started paying more attention. She’d mark her hand after dinner, after we argued, after we watched a movie. There was no clear pattern I could see, but I knew it meant something.

One night, I counted the marks on her hand—there were seven. Later that night, I watched her transfer those marks into a small notebook she kept by her bedside. She had no idea I was watching her.

The next morning, I couldn’t resist. I waited until she was in the shower, and I opened her notebook. I flipped through the pages—each one was filled with rows of tally marks. I counted them—68 in total.

I sat there on the bed, staring at the notebook. What could this number mean? What was she counting?

A few days later, I tried asking her again.

“Sarah, please tell me what those marks are for. It’s driving me crazy.”

She sighed, clearly annoyed. “I already told you—it’s just something I do. It helps me remember.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” I snapped, my frustration boiling over. “What are you remembering? Are you keeping track of something? Someone?”

“Just drop it, okay?” she said, her voice sharp. She looked at me, her eyes almost pleading. “Please, just let it go.”

But I couldn’t let it go. Those tally marks began to feel like a wall between us. Each time she made a new one, it was like she was building another layer to shut me out.

I became obsessed with the number 68. What was so significant about it? I even found myself being extra careful around her, as if I were scared of giving her a reason to add another mark. But no matter what I did, the marks kept appearing.

One night, after another argument, I watched her add four new tally marks. I needed to know what was happening. I had to figure this out before it drove me insane. But I had no idea how to get the truth out of her, and that scared me more than anything.

Eventually, the stress of it all became too much, so I decided to leave for a few days, hoping it might change things. When I returned, the tally count had grown to 78.

The obsession with those marks was eating me alive. Everywhere I looked, I saw her hand with those little black lines, mocking me. When Sarah suggested we visit her mother, I thought maybe it would be a welcome distraction.

Her mother, Diane, lived with her husband Jake in a cozy suburban home. It was a typical visit: tea, cookies, and small talk. While Sarah and Diane were in the kitchen, I excused myself to use the bathroom.

On my way back, I noticed a notebook on the guest room nightstand. It looked just like the one Sarah kept by her bed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside to check. I opened the notebook, my hands trembling. Inside were pages filled with tally marks—just like Sarah’s. But there was more. Next to each tally, there were labels: “interrupting,” “raising voice,” “forgetting to call.”

“What the hell is this?” I muttered under my breath, feeling a chill down my spine.

Was this some kind of family ritual? Was Sarah’s mother doing the same thing?

I closed the notebook, returning to the living room, trying to act normal, though my mind was racing. Sarah noticed my unease.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied.

On the drive home, I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“Sarah, I need to ask you something,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I saw your mom’s notebook. Are you both counting mistakes? You don’t have to be perfect, you know.”

After a moment of silence, she let out a bitter laugh. “You think I’m counting my mistakes?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, relieved she was finally opening up. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

She shook her head. “I’m not counting my mistakes, Jack. I’m counting yours.”

Her words hit me like a punch. “What?”

“Every time you break one of your vows, I make a mark. When you interrupt me, when you forget something, when you let me down,” she said quietly. “I’ve been keeping track since our wedding day.”

I felt my heart sink. “You’re counting my mistakes? Why?”

“Because I want to know when enough is enough,” she said, her voice breaking. “When you reach 1,000 marks, I’m leaving.”

The reality of her words sank in. I wanted to be angry, but I knew I couldn’t. I had been careless, dismissive.

The next day, I bought a new notebook—one we could fill with happy memories. Slowly, we started fresh. The tally marks were replaced with moments of laughter, joy, and gratitude. And, finally, we were on the same page, ready to rebuild.